


(day)dreams can come true

by ArsenicPanda



Series: phantasiae [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: BDSM, Canon Compliant, Collars, Dirty Talk, Dom Betty Cooper, Dom Jughead Jones, Exhibitionism, F/M, Furiously Horny Betty Cooper, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post 1x10, Praise Kink, Smut, Stepping, Sub Betty Cooper, Sub Jughead Jones, Voyeurism, brief mentions of, sexy daydreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArsenicPanda/pseuds/ArsenicPanda
Summary: “Have you thought of me—of me…” She can do this. “Of me masturbating?”Silence.She thinks of herself in her wig, of him in that collar. Her voice is sharp when she says, “I asked you a question, Jug.”“...Yes,” he rasps, and his voice is deep, so much more so than usual, and is it because of her?She sits up as straight as she can, head held high. “Now—Now’s your chance. Open the curtains.”Or: While struggling with her feelings, Betty has phone sex with Jughead.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: phantasiae [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680331
Comments: 46
Kudos: 174
Collections: 7th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	(day)dreams can come true

It’s been three days since the debacle of Jughead’s birthday party. Three days since he ripped out her heart and three days since he gently put it back in as he kissed her hands, accepting her scars and her darkness.

Betty doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

It’s _good_ , obviously. It’s good that he accepts her so totally and holds her so gently. He sees her, _really_ sees her, and he likes what he sees. A warm feeling blossoms in her chest when she thinks about it, comforting and soft, different from the gleeful butterflies she’s gotten before.

She doesn’t know how to _feel_ about that yet.

It’s bothersome, because she doesn’t have _time_ for that. There’s her sister and Jason Blossom and her parents and her homework to think about.

That’s what she’s working on now, homework. Sitting cross-legged on her bed with her notebook to the side and her textbook in her lap, Betty’s trying to take notes on her history reading, “try” being the operative word there; her mind keeps slipping back to that night, his lips against her fists and his gentle eyes looking into hers, unblinking and unafraid. Jughead took off his hat for her, he _took off his hat_. What did that mean? Did it mean anything?

(Did it mean everything?)

And there’s that _feeling_ again, a warm ribbon wrapped gently around her heart, so unlike anything she’s felt before. It’s so soon after Archie to be feeling this, but it’s _more_ somehow, this pounding in her heart, insistent and so _real_. The thought of Jughead’s smile, small and sweet and sometimes nervous, makes her melt, and that smirk when they’ve got a lead drives her crazy in the best way. He is just the right amount of stubborn and kind and sarcastic, and oh, this boy—

_Not yet._

Covering her face with her hands, Betty groans and flops back against her bed. She keeps going in circles, no closer to answers than when she started.

(A four-letter word looms over her, and she pointedly ignores it the same way she ignores how her heart races when she wonders if Jughead feels it too.)

Maybe if she focuses on another part of that night, she can get past it and back to her work. The feel of his lips, perhaps. It’s been weeks, and she’s still surprised at how soft his lips are.

They’ve kissed before, of course, from gentle pecks to the occasional make out session. They even kissed that night at the Bijou during a lull in the first movie. It wasn’t for long, and it wasn’t that deep, but it was thrilling to take the risk of being seen. When the movie picked back up, she drew back because his birthday tradition was watching a double-feature, not making out in the middle of a theatre. But then, maybe it should have been. Maybe if, instead of going to that disaster of a party after the first movie, they had moved to the back of the theatre and she had crawled into his lap and they had kissed and kissed and kissed as his hands explored under her shirt and hers slid into his hair, maybe the night would have gone better. They would have had to bite back their moans and grunts so the other moviegoers wouldn’t hear them.A shiver races through her as she thinks of someone walking right past them as she ground her hips down to find him hard against her, and—

Fuck, she doesn’t have time for this either.

Does she?

Betty looks at her phone: 4:05p.m. Her parents are at work and won’t be back until well after 6p.m., so there’s no threat of anyone walking in on her. And if she sets an alarm, she can still have time for her homework.

This could work.

No, she needs to focus. She picks up her pen and returns to the Hundred Years’ War. She can do this, so long as she doesn’t think about his breath against her ear or how his long fingers would feel deep in her—

Her clit throbs, and she slams her book shut. She’s not getting anywhere until she gets this out of her system.

She locks the door, her mother’s rules be damned, kicks off her jeans and panties, pulls off her shirt and bra, and looks at her bed. Normally, she’d crawl under her sheets to do this, careful not to get caught, but now she wants something different. She wants to play with fire, like they would have at the Bijou. So she pulls them back to make a space for herself and lies down, propping her head and back up on her pillows.

From here she can see through the window into Jughead’s room; the curtains, his and hers, are open, after all. She can see the room at an angle, part of the bedside table, and a slice of the bed. She moves to get up and close the curtains, but pauses. Archie’s at practice until 6 p.m. Jughead will be working on his novel at Pop’s until who knows when, so she should be safe. But in theory, he could leave Pop’s early. In theory, he could come back to his room and look through the window. In theory, he could catch her touching herself. If she wants to avoid that, she needs to get up and close the curtains.

A shiver runs through her, head to toe, pussy clenching around nothing, and she stays right where she is, staring through the window.

She relaxes into her pillows, runs her hands down her chest to her breasts, and cups them softly. Rubbing her nipples with her thumbs, she thinks of that possibility, of Jughead catching her. He’d be coming to surprise her, crawling through her window again in the kind of romantic gesture that makes her heart race, only to find her spread out and moaning his name as he turned to her bed after entering.

He’d be stunned at first but recover quickly like he always does, only he’d forget to close the window behind him. He’d surprise her with a choked, “Betty?”

She’d just turn her head and smile at him, all sultry and sexy, and crook her finger toward him. “Come here, Juggie. I need some help.”

He’d grin that perfect grin of his and stride over to her. Putting a knee up on her bed and leaning over her, he’d whisper in her ear, “I’m always happy to help.”

He’d kick off his boots and crawl over her, and they’d kiss and kiss and kiss, his tongue intertwined with hers, and her hands would be all over his cute butt. One of his hands would be holding the back of her neck, and the other would be lifting up her leg, pulling it up to better thrust into her, his cock straining in his pants and hard against her center.

Lips leaving hers and trailing down her neck, he’d suck a mark into her and growl, “Mine.”

She’d give him a matching mark later, but for now she’d drag her nails down his back, hard enough to leave eight red lines for others to see. “Mine,” she’d moan.

He’d hiss and tug on her hair, and then his other hand would move down to her pussy and stroke her, and he’d whisper in her ear, “So wet. Is this for me?”

She’d sneak her hand into his pants in retaliation and grasp his cock. “As much as this is for me.”

She’d stroke, and he’d stroke, and he’d groan in her ear, “God, I lo—”

_Not yet, not yet, not yet._

She thinks of them in the Blue and Gold, late at night and with the door locked. She’d be bent over the desk, her ankles tied to its legs with his suspenders. With her skirt rucked up, shirt and bra on the floor, and panties in his pocket, she’d be on full display for him. She’d have clamps attached to her nipples and clit, connected by a chain, and they’d hurt so good. Propped up on her elbows, she’d be editing his latest article, red pen in hand.

“Go on, Miss Editor,” he’d command her.

Shirtless, he’d be reading over her shoulder, his chest hot on her back. His long fingers would alternate between teasing her entrance and taking note of every error she missed. With each one she got right, he’d tug on the chain connecting the clamps, and she’d moan at the sensation.

“Careful now, someone might hear you,” he’d whisper in her ear.

At the end of each paragraph, he’d look over his notes, and for each missed error, he’d give her one spanking.

“Count,” he’d order, and she would because she wanted to be _good_ for him.

Eventually, she’d finish the article, and he’d turn her face to him and gently kiss her. “So good, so good, my good girl.”

She’d shiver and sigh, “I lo—”

_Not yet not yet not yet._

She thinks of them in her room, where she’d be sitting on her bed, wearing only the black wig, something dark and lacy, and sky high, high heels. Naked and with his wrists handcuffed together in front, he’d be kneeling in the center of the room, waiting for her instructions. The collar, plaid with crown-shaped studs, would be so pretty around his neck, and the black fur inside would keep him comfortable. He should always be comfortable. When she’d pull on his matching leash, he’d crawl toward her, even as the handcuffs limited his movements.

“Sit,” she’d tell him when he reached her.

“Yes, Mistress,” he’d say as he obeyed, and she’d tell him what a good boy he was and caress his face with her foot. He’d lean into it, preening at her praise.

He’d always be so good for her.

She’d drag her foot down his body, slowly, _so slowly_ , and he’d groan each time she applied pressure, digging her heel into his shoulder, his side, his leg right by his groin. When she would reach his crotch and gently rub the leather of her shoe up and down his cock, he’d pant like a dog for her, only for her, and beg to come.

But it wouldn’t be his time, no. She’d tease and tease and tease but then run her foot back up his torso and hook her leg around his shoulder. Pulling him forward with his leash and pushing him forward with her heel digging into his back, she’d say, “Time to eat up, Juggie.”

And he would, god, he would, licking and sucking and biting, so eager for her. As his tongue teasingly spells out against her clit _I-L-O_ , she’d pant, “Yes, yes, I lo—”

_notyetnotyetnotyet_

She’s two fingers deep in her pussy, thinking of his lips against that spot under her ear, of his tongue circling her nipples, and chasing her high when her alarm goes off. She opens her eyes and gropes for her phone to put it to sleep. She’s close, she’s _so close_ , and as she returns to her place on her bed—because she has time, she does, she _does_ , just a little bit more and she’s _there_ —she looks through the window and—

 _Jughead_.

Clad in his t-shirt and boxers, he’s standing next to the window with a death grip on the window frame. She stares at the tent in his boxers, which are impeding her vision in the worst way.

Slack-jawed, he’s staring straight at her, just as frozen in place as she is, except for his right hand...which is palming himself through his boxers like it has a mind of its own. She wishes that was her hand right now.

The stillness seems to stretch on forever, until he snaps to and, red-faced, jerkily closes the curtains.

She’s fantasized about this before, but those ended with his head between her legs, not turned away from her. Part of her wants to get dressed and forget this ever happened, and part of her wants to go back to what she was doing and come, and yet another part of her wants to recalibrate her fantasy and make it real. She stares at the window. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

She wants him.

She wants _this_.

And she’ll take it.

First things first though, and she resets the alarm on her phone. Thirty minutes should be enough with the state they’re in. She grabs her housecoat from the hook on her door and slips it on, putting her phone in its pocket. After checking herself in the mirror, she returns to her bed and sits down on the corner. 

Deep breath, in, out, in, out.

She can do this.

Smoothing down her robe, she pulls out her phone and calls Jughead.

He answers immediately. “Betty? Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—I was at Pop’s, and I spilled my coffee on myself, so I came back and I was changing and I turned to find my pants and I saw—it was an accident, I swear, I just froze, I would never—”

“It’s ok, Juggie.”

“No, it’s not, I violated your trust and your privacy and—”

“I’ve thought about you catching me before.”

Silence.

“I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. You, climbing into my room, and seeing me like—” Her voice wavers. She can do this. “—like that. Or me, walking into your room and seeing you.”

Deep breath, in, out.

She continues. “Have you thought of me—of me…” She can do this. “Of me masturbating?”

Silence.

She thinks of herself in her wig, of him in that collar. Her voice is sharp when she says, “I asked you a question, Jug.”

“...Yes,” he rasps, and his voice is deep, so much more so than usual, and is it because of her?

She sits up as straight as she can, head held high. “Now—Now’s your chance. Open the curtains.”

The silence from the other end makes her fidget, and she worries she’s misread him, misread _all_ of this.

But then the curtains open, and she can see him, clutching the curtains in one hand, while his other is clenched around his phone.

“Let me see?” he asks, and she swears she hears desperation in his voice.

She puts the phone on speaker and places it next to her on the bed. Slowly, she opens her housecoat, revealing her collar bones and her breasts and her stomach and her legs. Slipping it off her arms, she sits bare before him for the first time. Well, almost: her legs are still crossed.

“You’re beautiful,” he chokes out, and Betty can feel her cheeks blush and her heart swell. She fights the urge to look away and instead looks directly at him, expecting that look of sincerity he always wears when he compliments her, praises her. She finds it, but it is mixed with an awe she doesn’t deserve.

She takes a deep breath. “Your turn.”

In an instant, he drops his phone onto the bedside table next to the window and fumbles through taking off his shirt, dislodging his beanie in the process. 

Licking her lips, Betty takes a moment to ogle her boyfriend’s lean frame and smooth chest. She drags her eyes from his lush hair to his eyes to his soft jawline, over his toned arms and long fingers, and back down his pecs and abs and, oh, that happy trail of hair that she so wants to follow with her hands, her mouth, her tongue. She wants to feel his muscles under her hands, to run her fingers through his hair, to ride that pretty face of his.

Jughead fidgets under her gaze. “Betty?”

She smiles. “You’re beautiful.”

He looks away, and even from here she can see the blush on his cheeks. Bouncing her knee impatiently, she clears her throat. “But that’s not everything.”

“You really want to see?” he asks, looking at her from the corner of his eye and fiddling with his boxers, tugging them down a little and then up a little and then down a little, and if he would just _make up his mind_ , she could _see_ —

Her thighs clench as her fingers run up and down her leg. Unable to take her eyes off his waistband, she hears herself gasp out, “Yes, god, _yes_.”

Taking a deep breath, he stands up straight and looks her dead in the eye. The heat from his gaze sends a shiver down her spine. “If you’re sure, Betts.”

“ _Jug_ ,” she whines.

And the little shit _grins_ , all crooked and charming, and the urge to suffocate him with her thighs rises when he says, “You first.”

He always gives as good as he gets, which is part of why she lo—likes him so much, but this was not the plan. She demurely places her hands on her knees, pressing her breasts together, and she hears him let out a guttural groan. In her primmest, best girl-next-door voice, she says, "But I'm not wearing anything, Juggie."

"But I can't _see_ everything," he teases. “And isn’t the saying ‘Ladies first’?”

“But I _asked_ first,” she insists. “You’ll just have to wait your turn. Patience is a virtue, after all.”

She thinks he raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to cave on this, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, I give, not like I can say ‘no’ to you anyway,” he says, and can’t he? Doesn’t he? She tries to think back over the past few months to when she’s asked him to—

But she loses her train of thought when he pulls down his boxers, inch by tantalizing inch, and she can't help but lick her lips when his cock pops out. Her eyes take in the delicious sight before her, and while she doesn’t haven’t anything to measure it against, it looks good and hot and she really, really wants it in her. He must notice her gaze when he finishes kicking off his boxers, because he grins and asks, half cocky and half self-conscious, "Still beautiful?"

She can hear the huskiness in her voice when she replies, "Yes."

With a blush on his face, he nods at her. "Your turn."

Slowly, she runs her hands over her breasts and stomach, down her legs to her knees with a feather-light touch. She's shaking just a bit, but she pushes it back because she wants this, wants him to see all of her. She’s hoping he'll like what he sees, and the heavy breathing she hears over the phone bodes well for her. With a deep breath, she moves her left leg off of her right and then gently spreads them all the way open, revealing all of her to him.

Voice wavering slightly, she parrots his question back at him, "Still beautiful?"

What if he says no?

But, running his hand through his hair, he groans, "Fuck, you have no idea."

“Should I take that as a ‘yes’?”

She swears she can see him gulp when he replies, “You should take that as a ‘god, yes, Betty Cooper. You are every one of my fantasies made manifest, and the sight of your pussy makes me want to run over there and eat you out.’”

They both freeze.

“Shit, that was too far, wasn’t it?” he asks, face in his hands.

But her hands grip her knees and her clit throbs and her nipples ache, and god, she knew he was good with words, but _this_ —

She frantically shakes her head. “No, no, it was,” she gulps, “it was just enough. Keep—keep going.”

He peeks out from between his fingers and asks, softly, “Really?”

She glares at him, just a little. “Yes, _really_ , Jug, I wouldn’t lie to you about—” _about what turns me on and makes me want to jump you_ , “about this. Keep going, or I will hang up on you and finish by myself.”

His hands slide down his face to reveal that grin of his, and she wants to kiss it as much as she wants to wipe it off his face before he starts toying with her. “Well, I wouldn’t want to make you go it alone. What kind of boyfriend would that make me?”

“A bad one,” she bites out, drumming her fingers on her knees.

“Nothing wrong with being a little _bad_ every now and then,” he jokes.

She growls at him, “ _Jughead Jones the Third—_ ”

He lifts his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. But,” and here he pauses dramatically because of course he does, “you’re going to need to be more specific about what you want. I could write about you endlessly, Betts.”

Her heart races at the insufferable little shit, and she can feel herself blush. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

“That’s, uh, a long list that we don’t have time for right now.”

“The abridged version then.” She takes a deep breath. “But I want to revisit that list later.”

He gulps. “Okay—”

“And touch yourself,” she commands in her firmest voice.

“Right, okay, give me a moment while I—” And in an instant he’s ducked out of her sight, and she hears drawers opening and Jughead rummaging through something. “Goddamnit, Archie, where is it? I know you have some—”

“Do _not_ talk about Archie right now.” She frowns at not being able to see him, but takes the opportunity to grab her phone and scoot back up her bed to rest on her pillows again, legs still spread wide and phone placed on the bedside table where she can hear him best.

“That’s not what I...Found it!” He pops back up into sight with a bottle of some kind.

“What is that?”

“It’s, uh, lotion. I, um, I don’t want to do this dry if I don’t have to. I almost feel bad borrowing it, but with the things I’ve had to hear lately, he owes me. And—” He narrows his eyes at her. “You moved. I can’t see you as well.”

She raises one eyebrow. “You could see me plenty before.”

“But I didn't know what I was missing then,” he whines.

Fighting the urge to look away from him and mumble her answer, she replies, “But this way I can use both hands to touch myself.”

He swallows. “Oh. Yeah, then, then definitely stay there. That’s very important to—”

“ _Jughead._ ”

“Right. Right. Just—Just give me a moment to think, this is the stuff of dreams,” he stammers.

She’ll have to ask him about those dreams later. But for now she nods and sits still, hands awkwardly positioned next to her and waiting for his words to sweep her away. She watches him run his hand through his hair, and her hands twitch. She’s only gotten to touch his hair a few times, but it is so, so soft, and she wishes that hand was hers right now. Maybe if she tugged it he’d go faster.

“I _will_ start without you if you don’t hurry up,” she grumbles.

He chuckles. “Always so impatient. In as much of a hurry to come as you are to find the truth, I see.”

“So?”

“So I like it,” he says, and his voice is so matter of fact, like it’s obvious, a given. “It’s impressive, not to mention fucking hot.”

Betty feels her face flush. How does he always know what to say?

“You’re fierce and determined, and it’s so _hot_. Every time we get a new lead and you get that _look_ in your eye, I just—I just want to kiss you. More than anything, I want to kiss you. Your lips and your tongue are just so soft yet fierce, and it just makes me _feel_.”

_Makes you feel what?_

But she doesn’t know how to feel about that, so she doesn’t ask. Instead, she asks, “And what would you do next, after you kissed me?”

“I’d—Well, it’d be hard to drag myself away from your lips, but I’d do it so I could kiss down your jaw and neck, but not before spending some time on that spot beneath your ear, the one that makes you gasp so prettily.”

She slides her hands over her jaw and down her neck like he says, landing on her shoulder. “Keep going.”

“I want to kiss down your chest to your—to your tits and feel them against my tongue and in my hands. I bet they’re soft, are they soft?” He’s stroking himself slowly, patiently, and she wonders what he feels like and when she’ll get to find out.

Dragging her hands down her chest to her breasts, she carefully avoids her nipples and instead cups the bottoms of her breasts, squeezing them lightly. “Yes.”

“And your nipples?”

Her fingers finally graze her nipples, hard and aching, and, as she rubs them, she gasps, “So hard for you.”

“I want to pinch them and lick them and,” he moans as he thumbs the head of his cock, “bite them, would you like that?” 

“Yes, god, yes,” she says. She bites her lip, just barely holding back her own moan.

He must notice, because he quickly begs, “Please don’t hold back, Betty. I want to hear you; I _need_ to hear you.”

She takes a deep breath and lets go. As she pinches and twists her nipples, the pain goes straight to her aching clit, and an obscene moan comes out of her.

“Like that, just like that.” He swallows, pumping his cock faster, and she can’t help but lick her lips at the sight. “I’ve wanted to hear that for so long.”

“You—You have?”

“You have no idea.”

They’re both silent for a moment, her stroking her nipples and him rubbing the head of his cock, spreading some liquid she desperately wants to taste. She breaks it with, “Keep going, Jug.”

“Right, right.” He takes a deep breath. “I’d drag my hands down your sides to your—to your pussy, where you’d be—are you wet?”

Barely managing to pull away from her breasts, she trails her right hand down to her pussy, shivering at the sensation of her fingers light against her stomach. She finds herself slick and soaked, and she whimpers at the feeling of her fingers sliding over her clit. “So wet.”

“For me?” he asks, and she’s mesmerized by the way his hand moves up and down his shaft.

Without tearing her eyes away, she circles her clit, alternating between soft and hard pressure, and moans, “Yes, always, yes.” Dragging her fingers from her clit to her entrance, she thrusts two of them into her throbbing pussy, imagining they’re his. “God, the thought of your fingers on my clit and in my pussy, I want it, I want your fingers so bad. They’re longer and thicker than mine and I want—”

“What about my mouth and my tongue?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” she gasps, and the mere thought of his soft lips against her clit has her bucking her hips.

“I want to suck on your clit and fuck you with my tongue, use every bit of research I’ve done on you.”

“Research?” she asks, slowing down in her confusion.

He pumps more lotion on his left hand but doesn’t miss a beat in his stroking or his words. “Yeah, I want to make it good for you, so good. I can’t stop imagining it, every night and every day, it makes me so hard just thinking about it, about tasting you, and god, do you know the places I’ve dreamed about eating you out?”

“Tell me,” she pants, speeding up again.

His hand speeds up too, and she wishes again that it was her hand or her tongue on his cock instead. “Your bed, your vanity table, the Blue and Gold, Archie’s room, the drive-in, the closet I used to sleep in, your dining room table—”

“What?” she asks, not stopping this time.

“It, uh, happened in a dream.” For some reason, he looks away.

She ignores it, too caught up in his words and the idea of her spread out on her dining room table for him to devour. “We should—we should definitely do that one. We should do all of them.”

But he’s still looking away, and she wants, she needs, that gaze on her, the one that makes her shiver with desire, so she resorts to begging, “Jug, please look at me. Please don’t stop.”

Finally, he looks back to her, and his eyes drag up and down her body, and yes, that’s it. That’s what she wants. Pulling her fingers out of her pussy and dragging them up to urgently rub her clit, she can hear his deep breath before he continues, “I want you to ride my face, hands in my hair or on a headboard or wherever, I just want to drown in your pussy and make you come again and again and again, until your legs are jelly and you can barely walk.”

Her eyes practically roll back in her head, and she lets her thoughts out without a filter, saying, “I want—I want your cock in my mouth, all of it, every inch. I want to tease you with my tongue until you make me choke on it.”

His hand moves with a twist up and down his cock, and she tries to file the movement away for later. But the sight of it and the sound of his panting have her reeling, and it’s better than anything she’s ever imagined.

He interrupts her thoughts with a groan, “Fuck, Betty, I’m close, I’m so—”

“Just a bit more, Jug, please, please,” she pleads, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut as she loses herself in the feeling of her fingers against her clit, in the sound of his hand pumping his cock, in his voice, god, his _voice_.

“I want your mouth, I want your mouth, but I want to fuck you more. God, I want to fuck you senseless, and I want you to ride me hard. I need to know how you feel around me, and I need to see you come, Betty. I need to hear you and see you. Please look at me,” he begs, his voice raw and desperate.

She opens her eyes, and he is looking at her with such intensity, with a kind of desire she never thought would be directed at her, and she can hear herself start to chant his name in a gasping voice. 

His fist moves frantically up and down his cock, and the sight of it combined with the knowledge that she did that to him brings her to the edge. He pants, “Like that, yeah, let me hear, let me see all of you, please, _please_ —”

The sound of him begging tips her over. Her orgasm slams into her with an intensity she’s never felt before. Her toes curl, and her legs shake, and her back arches, and she lets out one last, strangled cry of, “Jug.”

She never looks away, though. The sight of his left hand frantically pumping fuels her as she rides out her orgasm. He practically doubles over at the force of his own, but his eyes don’t leave hers, even as his right hand hurries to cover the head of his cock and catch his come. 

“ _Betty_ ,” he says, like a wonder, like a _prayer_ , and her name has never sounded more beautiful. She’s never felt more cherished, and she can’t help but—

_Not yet._

He stumbles back to sit on the bed. “Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard.”

“Me either,” she says, still panting and reeling from her orgasm.

He looks down at his hands, his left covered in left-over lotion and his right in come. Wiping his left hand off on his leg, he stares at his right while flexing it. “But it was really reckless. I almost came on the window.”

“Mm, I like you reckless,” she says blissfully, and he looks up and smiles at her.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They’re silent for a while, but as she begins to come down from her high, she realizes everything they just said, and she can’t help but blush. Thinking back to his words at the end, she fidgets a bit, trying to build her confidence up to ask, “When I...That is, did you…”

“When you…?”

“When I...came...Did you like it?” she asks, voice small despite herself, and she looks away.

“Betty. Look at me,” he says, and he sounds so gentle, the way he does when he squeezes her shoulder in comfort and wraps her up in his arms. She always feels safe when he uses that voice.

She turns back to him, and his eyes are warm and smiling, she can see it even from here. “It was p—It was better than anything anyone could ever imagine.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I loved it. I love—” and he stumbles over himself here, though she doesn’t know why, “—d it.”

“You were pretty great to see too,” she tells him with renewed confidence.

“Oh, uh, thank, thank you,” he mutters, and now he’s the one to look away red-faced.

They sit in silence again as Betty tries to process everything that just happened, everything they said, if anything is different. It’s comfortable somehow, only slightly awkward despite the lewdness of what they just did.

“Hey, do you...do you want to go to Pop’s?” His voice would sound casual to most people, but she can hear the nervousness mixed with hope and her heart aches for him and oh, this boy.

_Not yet._

“Yes, I’d—Yes. Just let me clean up first.” She scoots down and finally looks away from him as she swings her legs over the side of her bed, about to get up.

“Don’t—Don’t wash your hands. I want my taste.” His voice is half confident, half shy.

She whips her head back to him, mouth agape. He’s smiling at her, mischievous yet soft, and he’s full of surprises, he really is. Hopefully, one day she’ll learn every single one.

So she gathers herself, sits up straight, smiles back, and with every ounce of confidence in her, says, “Then I want my taste too.”

She thinks his eyes widen for a second before his face settles into that fond look of his. “Betty, I wish you could, but if I don’t clean up, I can’t get dressed,” he sighs.

“That’s not so bad.”

“I can’t go to Pop’s naked.”

“ _Fine_.” She can’t help but pout, but then smiles at an idea. “But if I can’t taste, then you have to for me.”

She thinks he raises an eyebrow at her, and with the widest grin possible, he says, “You are full of surprises, Betty Cooper.”

She smiles at the sentiment he doesn’t even know he’s returned. “Jughead Jones, you have no idea.”

“I want to know them all. Will you show me?” he asks, voice so warm and so _Jughead_ , and he means it, he really means it, and her heart is overwhelmed with feeling for this boy and she just—

_Not yet._

She taps her clean index finger against her chin and tries to sound mysterious as she says, “Maybe. But I don’t see any tasting.” She pauses. “And I want to _see_. Okay?”

“Okay.” He locks eyes with her and shows her his come-covered hand before holding it perpendicular to his mouth and slowly licking it clean with the side of his tongue. God, the things he could do with that tongue, the things she _wants_ him to do with that tongue.

“How does it,” she licks her lips, “how does it taste?”

“Salty.”

“I like salty,” she says eagerly.

There’s that smile again, and his voice is so soft when he says, “Maybe next time then.”

She nods at him. “Definitely next time.”

Silence.

“I’ll see you in a bit?” he asks.

“Race you.”

“Oh, you are on.”

She hurries to get dressed, not washing her hands, and grabs her phone, making sure to turn off the alarm, and her things and rushes out the door, careful to use her clean hand as much as possible. She beats Jughead by a couple of minutes, and when he bursts out of the Andrews house, she can’t help but tease him, “I win.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to find something to wipe your hand clean on.” He pauses and then continues, “Did you?”

She raises her right hand and wiggles her fingers at him. “Nope. All yours.”

He walks toward her and takes her hand in his gently, running his thumb over her scars as he looks at them. He kisses them, feather-light, and then continues up her fingers, just as soft, just as sweet, and oh, this boy.

He locks eyes with her as he takes her index and middle fingers into his mouth. As he sucks on her fingers, his eyes, dark and deep, close, and a look of bliss covers his face as he groans and his tongue swirls around her fingers, thoroughly cleaning each one. Her breath hitches at the feeling, and she knows his tongue will feature in every fantasy she ever has from now on.

With one last slide of his tongue, he pops her fingers out of his mouth. Licking his lips, he sighs with sated desire as he says, “Even better than I imagined. I can’t wait to taste the real thing.” 

After a moment, a moment where Betty doesn’t know what to say but just might know how to feel, his eyes fly open and he stumbles over his words to say, “That is, um, if that’s ok with you.”

She pulls him close by the lapels of his jacket and kisses him, soft at first and then deeper as he wraps his arms around her, and she can just barely taste herself on his tongue. When they part, he lets out a breath and leans his forehead against hers, eyes still closed. She watches him, the way his face is relaxed, free of the burdens that usually weigh him down, and she can’t help but smile.

After a moment, he cracks open one eye. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

She kisses him quickly once more. “That’s a ‘yes’.”

He pulls back just enough to take her right hand in his, linking their fingers together as if he hadn’t just licked them clean of her slick, as if this was just one more aspect of their relationship, one more part of her he accepts, and in that moment he is everything. 

She knows how to feel about that, about this, about _him_.

She _knows_ , feels it with all her heart.

With one last kiss to her hand, he asks, “So, Pop’s?”

“Yeah, Pop’s,” she replies, swinging their hands slightly.

He flashes her a boyish grin. She feels her heart thud in her chest, ba-dump ba-dump, and three little words lie on the tip of her tongue.

_Soon._

**Author's Note:**

> Betty has been furiously horny for Jughead since mid-season 1, and you cannot change my mind. Special thanks to @bettycooper for outstanding and extremely thorough betaing skills, whose help I cannot understate!


End file.
